Introducing Donovan

         Larki sat alone, perched on a barstool in a dimly lit pub. The parking lot was filled to capacity, as always, and the bodies in the little booze-hole were seething. It was Friday night, and the singles were out in force. Not all had good intentions, though; she was being eyed by one such man. She wrinkled her nose in distaste when she got a good look at him, utterly revolted. He was covered in stained clothes, with greasy hands and the general appearance of a homeless drunk. She felt her skin crawl with revulsion.

         Of course, she expected it most of the time, and she normally dealt with it in good humor. But tonight was not one of those nights, obviously. She had come out of her apartment to find painful scratches covering her precious car, and she had just about murdered the first person she saw. And it wasn’t an accident: her ex-boyfriend had carved his initials in the crimson paint, along with a variety of colorful words he thought about her. Just mad about me being the one who left, she thought grimly. Men always think like that. He cheated, but I had no right to leave. Pig.

         With a sigh, she looked up at her glass of wine, noticing the abysmally low level of dark liquid it held. This would not do, just not at all. “Barkeep,” she said in a clear voice, looking up for the man. She vaguely remembered his name. Harry, or something like that. “I need another glass of wine.” The man appeared from the other end of the bar, with soft-voiced comments along the lines of “Certainly, ma’am,” as he refilled her glass. She slid money across the bar to him, and he bowed to her, backing away to deal with another customer. And once again, she resumed her thoughtful silence and sipping the dark wine, savoring the bite it held for her senses.

         She was too preoccupied staring into the blood-red colored liquid to notice when someone sat down next to her. She did notice, however, when the voice held an accent she rarely heard. She looked up in curiosity when the twang of a Scotsman was heard next to her, and her clear eyes blinked at him. What an example of a man, she thought wryly, one corner of her lips twitching in amusement.

         For some reason, this man had sat down next to her, seemingly oblivious to her existence. While he was distracted with getting a drink from the barkeep, she studied him as extensively as possible, without her mind crossing into territories considered too lewd for good taste.

         He was definitely an attractive man, she noticed immediately, standing much taller than her. Yet another one, over six feet tall, she thought, eyeing the head of black spikes that he must call his hair. His eyes were dark, his face was clear, and every inch of him screamed muscle and rugged at her senses. His torso was well-cut into perfectly formed muscles, which were easy to see through the flimsy excuse for a tank top he wore. His jeans were as ratty, torn up, and baggy as her own, and his boots were of a working variety: black, scuffed, and probably steel-toe. A chain hung from his wallet, and a cell phone was clipped to his belt. His hands were large, as muscled as the rest of his body, but without the calluses of a hard laborer, or cuts of most professions. She was slightly curious about what he did for a living.

         ”It’s impolite to stare, lass,” he said suddenly, giving her a wry grin from over his glass of Scotch. “Though Ah do admire yer intentions.” With this, his eyes took on a gleam that could only be described as that of one extremely horny animal, and she recoiled slightly away from him. This, of course, brought laughter from her new companion, and he held a hand out in greeting. “Sorry to frighten ya,” he continued, a friendly-enough smile on his face. “But that’s the way of us Scottish folk, and men in particular. I’m Donovan.”

         She eyed his hand for a moment, curious but wary, before gingerly sliding her own into his. He had a strong grip, but warm hands, with soft skin, she noticed, which was odd. “I’m Skyelark,” she said, giving her best show-biz smile. “But most people call me Larki, for short.”

         ”Larki,” he said, trying the word out on his tongue. He thought about it for a moment, still watching her with keen eyes, then nodded slowly. “Alright, Larki. Ah think Ah can handle that.” He gave her a slow smile, showing off rows of white teeth, and she had the sudden impression of a wolf in sheep’s clothes. She didn’t really mind it, though, and she realized this as she eyed him.

         ”Are you sure about that, Donovan?” She drawled his name out, fluttering her eyelashes in a most seductive way, and heard him give a low chuckle in response. “Because most people can’t handle me. Dynamite in small packages, y’know.” She nodded solemnly, giving a frown of utter seriousness.

         ”Bullshit.” That was all he said, and when she laughed outright at his reaction to her playing, she had a sudden feeling that things were going to be very different in her life, starting with this man sitting before her. What the differences were, she would never be able to comprehend, especially that night.